silent for a while.

"Do you know," he said, presently, "I've met one or two fellows from
time to time who have been to a city like yours,--perhaps it was the
same one. They won't talk much about it--only broken hints, now and
then; but they've been there sure enough. They don't seem to care about
anything in particular--and every thing's the same to them, rough or
smooth; and sooner or later they slip off and disappear; and you never
see them again. Gone back, I suppose."

"Of course," said I. "Don't see what they ever came away for; _I_
wouldn't,--to be told you've broken things when you haven't, and stopped
having tea with the servants in the kitchen, and not allowed to have a
dog to sleep with you. But _I've_ known people, too, who've gone there."

The artist stared, but without incivility.

"Well, there's Lancelot," I went on. "The book says he died, but it
never seemed to read right, somehow. He just went away, like Arthur. And
Crusoe, when he got tired of wearing clothes and being respectable. And
all the nice men in the stones who don't marry the Princess, 'cos only
one man ever gets married in a book, you know. They'll be there!"

"And the men who never come off," he said, "who try like the rest, but
get knocked out, or somehow miss,--or break down or get bowled over in
the melee,--and get no Princess, nor even a second-class kingdom,--some
of them'll be there, I hope?"

"Yes, if you like," I replied, not quite understanding him; "if they're
friends of yours, we'll ask 'em, of course."

"What a time we shall have!" said the artist, reflectively; "and how
shocked old Marcus Aurelius will be!"

The shadows had lengthened uncannily, a tide of golden haze was flooding
the grey-green surface of the downs, and the artist began to put his
traps together, preparatory to a move. I felt very low; we would have
to part, it seemed, just as we were getting on so well together. Then he
stood up, and he was very straight and tall, and the sunset was in his
hair and beard as he stood there, high over me. He took my hand like an
equal. "I've enjoyed our conversation very much," he said. "That was an
interesting subject you started, and we haven't half exhausted it. We
shall meet again, I hope."

"Of course we shall," I replied, surprised that there should be any
doubt about it.

"In Rome, perhaps?" said he.

"Yes, in Rome," I answered, "or Piccy-the-other-place, or somewhere."

"Or else," said he, "in that other